


Things We Lost in the Fire

by Sabsabbath



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camp, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:12:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabsabbath/pseuds/Sabsabbath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a troubled teanager who gets into fight after fight until his father decides he's had enough, and he sends Dean away to a camp for troubled teens. There, he bunks with Castiel, a messy-haired mute boy who has burn scars on his back. Dean searches for the truth behind this boy. However, through his investigations he picks up a few conflicting insights about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

As a child, Dean begged his parents for companionship, so when John and Mary Winchester brought home his baby brother, he was utterly determined on spending as much time with the kid as possible.

“Can I hold him?” he asked, looking up to his mother as she carefully rocked little Sammy in her arms, being more than careful not to drop him.

“I think you’re a little too young, pal,” his father chuckled from the rocking chair where he sat, one leg propped up on the other’s knee.  A sort of pride beamed in his face as he looked to his family, and he couldn’t imagine that a man could be more content than he was in that moment.

“No I’m not! I’m already four and a half. Let me hold him. Please?” Dean pleaded and grabbed at his mother’s skirt.

“Hey, stop that now—” he warned, and Mary gave John a disapproving stare. “Now don’t look at me like that.”

“He’s your son,” she said, placing Sam into his crib and pulling up the bars. The baby cooed and kicked his feet in protest, already missing the sound of his mother’s heartbeat.

“He’s only _my_ son when you don’t want to disappoint him,” he looked down to the boy who was struggling to stand on the very tips of his toes, chubby hands grabbing and holding himself up by the bars. Mary dismissed him with a fling of the wrist and walked out of the room, leaving her boys behind. “Your mother sometimes, I swear.”

“Dad, come on! I just want to hold him.”                       

“I know you do.” John stood up from the chair then came around the crib to his begging son. He placed his hands under his arms and began to lift. “Up we go,” and Dean threw his arms into the air, imitating Superman lifting off. When he was all the way up, he hooked one around his father’s neck.

“It’s not fair that you and Mom get to hold him and not me.”

“That’s totally fair.”

“No it isn’t.” Dean was never much a whiner, but in that moment he was even surpassing most children his age.

“Okay my boy,” John began, walking over to the rocking chair and taking a seat, setting Dean down comfortably in his lap. “You know our family motto, the one I taught you?” He nodded his head and his eyes rolled up to search his brain.

“It’s…”

“Go on,” he urged him.

“Winchesters look after each other. That’s it, right?”

“That’s the one. Now Dean, you’re too little to hold Sammy; you might drop him.”

“I’ll never drop him, I promise.” Dean held his pinky out for his dad. John couldn’t help but to smile and accept the offer. He wrapped his much larger finger around his son’s, and Dean had a difficult time hanging on. _But a promise is a promise_ , he told himself, so he hung on tight for a long while, and John waited until he let go to say anything.

“I know you’ll never dream of letting Sammy get hurt,” Dean nodded his head resolutely, “and I know you won’t mean to, but sometimes bad things just happen, but eventually you’ll be old enough to hold any baby you want.”

“But I don’t want to hold just any baby, I want to hold Sammy.”

“And maybe one day you’ll get to, but as of right now the answer is still no.” Dean looked down to his father’s lap, and tears began to collect in his eyes. “But I’ll tell you what,” John lifted Dean’s chin up and swiped away a rolling tear with his thumb. He couldn’t stand to see his little boy upset. “I’ll let you sit with him for a while.” Dean hugged him from around the neck and was carried happily away. John placed him in the bottom of the crib, not to far or too close to Sam.

Sam looked down at his feet, a curious look turned into a gurgle of joy as he seen his brother, and to John’s surprise, Sam he was giggling for the first time in his young life. Dean noticed the significance of the moment too, and shot his head up to grin at his father.

“Did you see that?” he asked, and John was taken aback. Dean was never the type to show his affections so willingly, and the scene was Hallmark worthy. He watched as Dean lifted his hand, imitating an airplane crashing down slowly to tickle Sammy’s belly. He was too engrossed in them to notice someone slip into the room, and he almost didn’t take the time to look when he felt a pair of hands wrap around his waist. He could see from the crown of her blonde head that it was his wife.

“Now would you look at that,” she said as Dean gave Sam a very light kiss on his forehead. “That baby must be something special to make Dean act like that.”

“Yeah,” he sighed contently, leaning into the kiss she was placing onto his neck, “or maybe all that boy needed was a brother to show his soft side.”     

“Either way, it’s working,” she said in a hush tone so she wouldn’t disturb the boys. “He has all a kid really needs: a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and someone worth caring about.”

“I think we’re doing pretty great, you and me. Better than our parents,” and that was their basic goal since the beginning. He felt her head nod as her warm breath hit his skin with every exhale. They stood there awhile in silence until they heard the clock in the hall chime nine times.

“Alright Dean, time to hit the hay,” Mary announced and glided over to the crib, her white nightgown flowing after her.

“Can’t you wait five more minutes?” Dean moaned.

“Don’t test my patience, young man.” The look in her eyes could have been enough to scare away a grown man, but it didn’t faze Dean, and he only stopped tickling his brother when he felt himself being lifted away from him. With his arms spread out, he called to his brother: “Goodnight Sammy!”

As he was being carried out of the room and into his own, he heard Sam staring to wail, followed by the familiar sound of John singing the only song he ever did.

“Lay your weary head to rest,” the song became muffled by the wall between his and the nursery, “Don't you cry no more”. His mother ducked him into his own bed and under the covers. She left for a second to shut the door, muting the ruckus outside. Before returning to his side, she flicked on his race car night light and plucked a book off his shelf.

“Not tonight,” he told her.

“What?”

“I don’t you to read to me tonight.”

“Alright,” she said, hesitantly placing the book back in place. “I guess I’ll just leave.”

“No, I want a story, just told by you.” She blinked at him. It was an odd request from Dean, especially since there wasn’t a night that went by without him requesting a book.

“Um, okay.” She strode over to his bed and sat down on the very edge of it just like she had always done. “Well, what would like to hear?”

“I had a question, actually,” he muttered, playing with a loose string from his blanket. She motioned him to continue. “Where exactly did he come from? Sam, I mean.”

“Well,” she tried not to trip over her words, feeling flabbergasted and unprepared; she quickly decided to tell him what her parents had told her at his age. “All babies come from heaven.”

“And where’s that?”

“There,” she pointed up.

“The ceiling?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I meant in the sky. You know, where the angels I told you about live?” Dean nodded his head.

“And what do they do?”

“You mean besides sending babies down? They watch over us.” She fidgeted with his blankets, tucking them in all around his body.

“That’s creepy,” he said, shifting further down into his pillow.

“No, it’s supposed to be comforting. When I say ‘watch over’, I mean they make sure no harm comes to you.”

“Why? What’s going to happen to me?”

“Nothing, silly. Bad things just happen sometimes, but everyone has a guardian angel that protects them.” She rubbed his forehead with the back of her hand, and Dean felt incredibly secure. He wondered if he would even need an angel as long as she was around. It seemed very unnecessary to him, but he figured a little extra protection would always be a good thing. “I want you to remember this, Dean. Angels are always watching over you.” He yawned and pulled at his covers, a signal that he was finally tired enough to get a good night’s rest. Mary subconsciously imitated her boy and put a balled fist up to her mouth, breathing out onto it and making a noise that Dean thought sounded like a lion’s roar, only a lot softer. When she was finished, she made sure to tuck him in tighter, wrapping the covers around his body to form a cocoon. He liked to pretend that sometimes, crawling under his covers and feeling cut away from the world but safe, like someone was just outside a few feet away guarding him.

Mary pressed her lips to his forehead, kissing him and shuffling his long untidy hair before retreating to the doorway. Dean shut his eyes and pulled a stuffed animal close to his chest, hearing the familiar sound of the lights flick off followed by the click of the doorknob’s hinge sliding into position, then somewhere in the next room he listened to his mother and father speaking in low tones before they too headed to their own bed. Then there was something else, a strange electric sound, like two wires coming into contact, but he paid no attention and instead let his dreams take over for a while.

       He was yanked out shortly after by bolting up in his bed, something he hadn’t meant to do. When he tried to open them, he discovered that his eyes were heavy and unfocused as well as his entire body dripping in sweat. He scanned the room squinted eyes to find what woke him, and he suddenly found the suspect. There was a cloud hovering above his head and seeping in through the bottom of his door, and for a second he wondered if he had dreamt that up too. He felt the burn from a room away, and his eyes stung to the touch of it. Nearly seconds after, he heard someone yelling from down the hall, almost like a ringing in his ears. He hopped down from his bed and strode for the door, his bare feet thrumming against the peculiarly cool wood. As he was reaching up to grab the knob, he heard Sammy’s piercing scream next door. Getting to him was all that he could think in that moment, because what kind of a brother would he be if he couldn’t?

He pushed the door open, and heat automatically blared at him. The smoke flooded his lungs as he inhaled deeply, but it cleared away once he let it all go in a scream for his parents. He turned his head away from it, and seen his mother running down the hallway from out of her room, her nightgown billowing behind her.

She called to him, her face contorted into something Dean had seen from a horror movie, “Go get your father!” she yelled over the sound of the blaze, “He’s downstairs. Then get out of here.”

“Mommy,” his eyebrows arched and tears gathered in his eyes.

“Don’t you worry about me, now go!” he turned to run, but was blocked by his father storming up the steps to get to them.

“Mary, the baby!” John grabbed Dean and pushed him behind, sheltering him from the fire.

“I know,” she said, her voice trembling, and she plunged in with a determined expression, one that Dean would never forget. He heard his father scream after her before turning around and pushing him away.

“Go outside!” and he took the leap of faith following her heals. Dean knew that he should have listened and ran to safety, but something told him not to. He stood in place, arm thrown over his face as the smoke and flames surged out of the doorway. Before he realized what he was doing, he tasted something metallic in his mouth and brought a hand up to it. He pulled away and saw red. He had bit into his tongue so hard that it was bleeding, but he wiped his hand on his pajamas, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, and he anxiously waited for a familiar face to surface.

A minute passed by in what seemed to take years until he seen any movement. A hand broke free of the flames. It gripped the door way as it emerged, and Dean could see straight away that it was his father. To his relief, he had Sam wrapped up in his other arm, and as soon as John was completely free of danger, he glared Dean down.

“I told you—“ He froze, the blood flowing from his face. There was a loud crash of wood followed by a shrill scream from the nursery. John looked to see flames wheeling out of the room, and then back to Dean. In a shaky motion, he cast the baby into his son’s small arms. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go.” And this time, Dean obeyed.

He ran all the way down the steps, gripping Sam as tight and as careful as he seen his mom do, and flew out the front door with such a ferocity that was unrepeatable, and he stood in his grassy front yard, staring up at his home in ruins. From three windows, flames blossomed ten feet high. Only the sound of sirens blaring in the distance brought him back down to earth, and he realized that Sammy was crying.

 

He moved Sam closer to his chest and sang the only song he knew the lyrics of, softly and mispronounced. “Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done,” he stopped to wipe at his eyes with Sammy’s blanket. “Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more.” He repeated those words the best he could over and over again and pressed his face to his brother.

Without warning, he felt someone pick him up and pull him away from the house seconds before there was a ground-shaking explosion. The sirens were a few feet away then, and when his feet were finally on the earth once more, he opened his eyes. He found himself looking up to John, hopeful that his mother would appear behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist just like she always did. After a while of that not happening, Dean opened his mouth, ready to ask a question no child ever should, but his father saved him the trouble by slowly shaking his head.

Dean’s bottom lip began to quiver, and he was hit with a wave of nausea.  A paramedic had rushed over and grabbed Sam from out of his arms, and Dean instinctively strained to grasp for his brother. Another paramedic came from behind and lifted him by his stomach, and while this was happening he couldn’t help but to wonder something.   
Where was his guardian angel?

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

Dean trudged his way through the empty halls, hand balled around a rag he held firmly to his nose. Tiny trickles of blood, without his knowledge, hit the floor like rain drops as he passed room after room until he came to his destination. He knocked twice, and waited for the nurse to open the door. When she did, her face dropped as she looked him head to toe.

“Again, Winchester?” she sighed, backing up and holding an arm out, allowing him to enter her office.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Dean told her while sulking over to the table he frequented.

“It never is,” she mocked, but He ignored her comment and instead effortlessly lifted himself onto the table, his feet dangling slightly above the ground. He pulled the rag from his nose, examining all that had poured into it.

She shut the door before turning around. Dean watched her walk over to the cabinet and stand on her toes, pulling down a brown bottle and cotton swabs. Dean mentally flinched.

 “You know,” she began, “I’ve been through an entire bottle of this in the past month.”

“Missouri—”

She cut him off, “I’m going to have to start ordering extra, just for you.”

Dean frowned. “If you would just do something about Zachariah, I wouldn’t be down here so often.”

“That’s something to bring up to the principal, sweetie, not the school nurse.”

“I’ve tried to, Missouri. You’re the only one who believes me.”

She stepped over to the table and placed the bag of swabs down next to him before cautiously uncapping the bottle. “Well it’s not like you’re doing this to yourself.” She took a swab and doused it in the liquid from the bottle, and Dean could feel the burn before it even made contact with his skin. She swiped away the blood from around the corners of his nose, and then to a cut that was made on his cheekbone. “What did this boy even do to you this time?”

“You mean besides breaking my face?” She nodded and he dropped his voice. “He said something.” Crossing his arms, Missouri finished flushing out the cut, and began examining Dean’s eye. She clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“He gave you a nice shiner, boy. That ‘something’ must have been a real doozy for you to think you can take down a linebacker.”

Dean knew from the second Zachariah’s fist made contact with his skin that he was going to have one hell of a black eye. “It was,” he confessed.

“What was it, if you don’t mind me asking?” She swabbed away at his bloody nose, which had only stopped bleeding moments ago.

“He insulted me and my brother.”

“Strange how I don’t see Sam down here for anything other than colds.”

“That’s because the kid doesn’t know how to speak up,” Dean said, shifting his head to the side so that Missouri could get to the next spot. He couldn’t help but stare at the door and notice a bloody handprint on the knob. He hesitantly glanced down to the floor and seen the trail of blood he left.

“Well would you prefer him to be in your shoes?” She asked, turning around to dispose the swabs. She grabbed a box of Kleenex in their absence and offered it to Dean. He took note of the Hello Kitty pattern and instantly smirked.

“That’s a real cute tissue box you got there,” he said, gratefully taking two. She laughed, putting the box back onto her counter. “Aw hell,” Dean said, motioning to the messy floor, “I’m real sorry about that.” He blew his nose, empting it of the excess blood and reached across the table once he was done to toss it into the garbage can.

She dismissively shook her head at him. “Don’t you worry about that. The janitor’s neurotic; he’ll be back to clean in here in no time,” they exchanged smiles and shared in an awkward silence together until she coughed, reaching out a hand to adjust Dean’s jacket collar. “You should probably go home and rest that eye. I suppose I could write you up a few excused absent slips.”

“You think you can write one up for Sammy, since I’m his only ride home for the day and all.” Dean knew he was pushing his luck, but he seen the way Missouri looked at him. She looked at him like every other adult did, as the poor motherless child who never had any correct discipline. He almost felt bad for taking advantage of her like that, he really did.

She hesitated, thinking hard about what that could mean for her. She weighed it out in her head until he won her over. “Sure,” she surrendered. “Just make sure he’s back in school tomorrow, and don’t make this a reoccurring thing, okay Winchester?”

Dean leaped off the table and kissed her on the cheek, “Oh Missouri you’re the best. Has anyone ever told you that before?” She sighed again, attempting yet failing to hide away a smirk. Pulling a pen out of the bun on top of her head, she turned around and opened one of her drawers.

“Mhmmm,” she hummed and drew out a yellow pad from her drawer. He watched her glide the pen across the paper before she handed it to him in one quick swipe.

As he started to leave, he halted in his track a few feet from the door. “Oh, one more thing?” he began, “can you check what classroom Sammy’s in?”

“What would you do without me?” she asked him, walking away and to her computer. She sat down in her leather chair and beat her fingers at the keyboard. “He’s in room 304.”

“Thank you!” Dean called from the hallway before closing the door. As he rushed to Sam, he noticed his face throbbing, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long until he needed to subdue the pain by borrowing aspirin from his father’s stash.

With the yellow slip between his fingers, he came to the third floor and began to count the room numbers off out loud. When he got to the one he was told, he knocked on the door and helped himself in. The teacher, a bearded but balding man, turned around to face him. He was holding a piece of chalk and peering over his spectacles at Dean.

Dean nervously clasped his hands together in front of him. “I’m looking for Sam,” he informed the teacher, motioning to the class as he seen his brother leaning forward in the front row, straining to see him. Dean walked forward, handing Sam’s teacher the yellow slip. He grabbed it, never taking eyes off of Dean’s face.

“What did you do, get into a flight with a lawn mower?” The man asked, looking down to the slip and deciding it was fit enough before waving Sam over. Sam scrambled to get his books together and raced to the front to stand at his brother’s side.

“You got me sir, that’s exactly what happened,” the class exploded to life with a laugh, and Dean looked out to them, spotting out two preteen girls in the front who were whispering to each other whilst staring directly at him. He winked, causing them to erupt in a fit of giggles. Feeling pleased with himself, he turned to see Sam’s reaction, but was rejected with an eye roll.

The teacher handed the pass back to Dean, and he pocketed it. “If I were you, I’d be careful about who I was sassing.”

Dean couldn’t resist. “If you were me, your head would be less shiny.” He grabbed Sam by his shoulder and led him out, leaving the stunned teacher in his place.

“Excuse me young man, what’s your name?”

Dean turned around and walked slowly backwards. “I don’t know, everything has been so cloudy since the lawn mower accident,” he flashed a fake, cheesy smile before turning back around and opening the door. By then, Sam’s entire class was bent over with laughter.

“Sam, who’s this boy?” Sam, feeling awkward, shrugged in response and followed his brother out of the door without further contact with his teacher. When the brothers were safely in the hallway, they fled down the stairs, skipping every other one. Without even hesitating, they pushed the double-doors open at the same time and gladly raced for the impala.

When they had arrived to it, Sam got a good look at Dean’s eye and frowned. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to say anything back,” Sam said between pants.

“Zachariah had it coming.”

“Apparently so did your face,” he retorted with a grin as he pulled the door open and slid into his seat. Dean shortly joined him.

“Oh hardy har har,” he mocked, twisting the keys and bringing the engine to life.

“You know, my teacher is going to give me hell when I go back.”

“Just tell him my name, and he’ll leave you alone.”

“And what? Get you into more trouble?” Sam yelled, but Dean shrugged it off and kept his eyes on the road. Sam grunted and fell back into his seat, defeated. “Dad’s going to kill you when he sees your face.”

“You mean after he gets home from killing the imaginary monsters under little kid’s beds? Face it Sammy, Dad is off his rocker. He won’t even give my black eye a second thought.”

“If you say so.” Dean decided he had enough of the conversation and turned the stereo up, canceling out any of Sam’s afterthoughts.

When they pulled into a parking space, Sam bolted from the car faster than Dean could get a word out. Dean watched him flee up the steps of their apartment building and disappear inside with not as much as one glance back to the impala. He waited for the song to finish before finally unbuckling his seatbelt and following Sam into the building, being cautious not to step on the decaying parts of the stairway which were visible by the darkened color and splinters sticking skyward from it.

When he entered the cramped space they were renting for the time being, he noticed that their bedroom door was closed, which only meant one thing: Sam was finally a hormonal teenager. Dean was expecting it for a few yews by then, but it still didn’t make the situation any more pleasant. He stuffed down the thought with a scowl as he tossed his book bag down to the ground and reached for the television remote, clicking it on for a few hours of mindless crap-television. They couldn’t afford cable, and even if they could Dean knew they wouldn’t be staying long enough for it to be worth the pain of getting everything connected only to pull out the wires in a few months’ time. So he sat in the beaten arm chair, mouth ajar and face throbbing until his stomach begged for company.

~~~

       Dean stood in the kitchen with an assortment of takeout menus sprawled on the counter. Thumbing through a separate handful of them, he called out loud enough to frighten the neighbors. “Sammy!”

From deep in the next room, Dean heard his brother demand back. “What?”

He waited.

“What do you want?”

No reply from Dean other than the smile that pulled on his lips. It only increased as he heard a loud thud followed by multiple footsteps. The door swung open at full force and ricocheted off the kitchen wall, displaying a very disgruntled young brother.

“What,” he began, his bangs dangling in his face, “do you want?”

“Lots of things,” he stared at the mess on top of Sam’s head. “For starters, I want you to get a haircut. You’re starting to look like Rob Zombie. And I need to know what kind of greasy food you’re craving.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sam explained, leaning forward in the door way with both hands on either side to ensure he wouldn’t face-plant.

“You’re going to be later, and I’m hungry now. So what will it be, Mandarin Kitchen, Taco Erendira, or Pizza Hut?”

“Why don’t you just wait for Dad to get home then you can ask him if you’re so indecisive?”

“We’ll starve if we wait, and besides, he’ll probably be too plastered to eat anyway.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled and attempted to flee back into the room, but was stopped when Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so he would have no choice but to face him.

“What’s gotten into you?” Dean asked, searching his face for any kind of answer.

Sam looked to the floor instead. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Then look at me and try again.” Sam fidgeted under Dean’s grasp and was quickly released. He opened his mouth, but abandoned what he was prepared to say. Instead, Dean could clearly see he was trying to develop an excuse.

Sam sighed heavily as the muscles in his face relaxed, and Dean could tell that he just broke through whatever was holding him back. “I heard Dad talking on the phone to someone about you,” he spit out.

Dean blinked. “What about me?””

Sam bit his lip and thought about how to phrase it. “Well,” he began, “he told the person all about you, like your fight history in school and stuff.”

“Huh, that’s not strange at all,” Dean dismissed his brother and twisted back around to the menus, plucking one off the counter and holding it up to Sam’s face.  “You in the mood for Tacos?”

Sam swatted it away, causing it float to the ground and land open. Dean stared at it in awe before looking back to him. “You’re better at this wrathful teenager thing than I ever was.”

 “No, you don’t understand. When Dad hung up, he went out without his phone and I checked to see who he was talking to, and it was some number I didn’t recognize. I called back on private and guess who picked up?”

“I don’t know, Rob Zombie?”

“Dean, it was Camp Oasis.”

“What the hell is that?” Sam rubbed at his brow with his index finger, and Dean felt his stomach turn cold. “Is it really that bad?” Sam nodded.

“I looked it up,” he stated slowly before throwing the punch, “and I found out it’s a correction camp for troubled teens.”

“You’re shitting me.” Sam shook his head and Dean gripped the counter behind him, “Dad wouldn’t send me there,” he said hesitantly, not completely believing himself.

“He sounded pretty serious,” Sam plopped down in one of the chairs and rested his head sideways on the table so he could have a full view of Dean. “Plus he said that if you got into one more fight that would be it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asked, joining him across the table.

“I was going to, but I just found out what the place was today, and I didn’t think that you were going to get your face pounded in so quickly.” Dean groaned and dropped his head forward and shook his hands through his hair so viciously that Sam wondered if he was going to complain about soreness later.

“I can’t believe it, a father that would do that to his own son.”

Sam’s lips parted to offer comfort to his brother, but the sound of the front door unlocking misplaced his words. Sam was surprised when he didn’t see Dean rise and leave the room. “What are you doing? Get out of here,” he whispered, signaling with a few flaps of his wrist to their room.

“What’s the point?” he asked flatly. “The school is only going to call him sooner or later.” Sam did not insist, partly because he realized his brother was right, but mainly because John had stepped through the door seconds later.

He announced his presence by the familiar thud of his duffle bag dropping to the already dangerously decayed floor. It was an unchanged habit of their father. Even when they were warned as children to never go near the duffle, he always left it by the doorway. For safe keeping he told them, just in case they had to flee from the hotel rooms or the rotted apartments. Just in case of a fire.

Even though that made logical sense to Sam, Dean couldn’t help but think of it as a trap, like the ones that are set up for a rat. A sort of come on, I dare you. John denied the accusations of course, but Dean always thought of it as a test. However, he would be lying if he said he never considered letting the temptation win.  

John trudged to the kitchen, his heavy boots pounding the floor every step of the way. Dean kept his head lowered as his father yanked the fridge door open and freed an extensive sigh from his lungs.

“No dinner,” John murmured, “again.”

       Dean could practically hear the vein pop out of his forehead and he glanced up to Sam without moving. Sam shifted uncomfortably. “We were just discussing dinner,” Sam informed him, obvious anxiety coating his voice.

“What’s there to discuss? One fatty-food joint is no different from another.” To Dean’s complete surprise, John didn’t sound the least bit intoxicated. He even saw Sam’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but they swiftly fell back down into place as he heard the clatter of glass against glass. He watched his father from the corner of his eye pull out a beer from one of the shelves before twisting the cap off and taking a long, fulfilling swig.

“Did you catch any today, Dad?” Sam asked, not out of curiousity but as a time-buyer.

“Almost,” John cleared his throat with a grunt. “The bastard got away, but I’ll be after him again tomorrow. But I think you guys should replenish the holy water in your room just to be on the safe side.”

Sam stiffened when he began walking over to the empty chair besides him, but eased as John suddenly stopped a few feet away and bowed down to seize something off the bottom of his boot. Upon ascension, they could see that it was the menu that they abandoned there.

John’s eyebrow’s narrowed as he squinted. His face abruptly lit up and he practically flew to the table, sitting across from Dean and next to Sam. “Tacos,” he breathed. “Now that’s a good idea.” He looked to Dean for a second before returning his gaze to the menu.  His expression turned rigid as he processed what he seen and slowly peeked back up to his son. He studied Dean for a long time until Sam had enough.

“Dad, it’s not what you think,” Say spoke, glancing over to Dean and then back to John. John made a movement as if he was going to lean back in his chair, but instead he stood up quickly, nearly knocking the chair to the ground.

“It’s exactly what I think,” John assured between gritted teeth. He placed both of his palms onto his forehead and pulled on his hair.

“You don’t understand. This boy, he said something to me —” Sam tried to get it out, but John wasn’t willing to let the last word leave his lips.

“Go to your room, Sam,” he stared at his father blankly. “Don’t you make me say it again.” Sam looked to Dean for guidance, and Dean offered him a suggestion: he nodded his head once in the direction of their room. Sam huffed and crossed his arms in response, hesitating a moment before sauntering away. Dean watched him go and flinched when he violently slammed the door.  

Dean swallowed and realized his throat felt like sandpaper. He eyed the sink and made his move for a cup.

“I can’t allow this anymore,” John stated, leaning his back against the counter opposite from Dean. Even though Dean couldn’t remember a moment when he seen an anger fierce enough to cause his father to charge at his son, he couldn’t help but feel thankful for the table sandwiched between them. John took another swig from the beer and swallowed it in a few gulps. He kept the bottle in his hand as he turned it in circles, pretending to study every centimeter. “You’re getting out of hand,” Dean turned away and twisted the knob of the sink, letting the water overflow, basking in the coolness against his skin. He shut the water off and brought the cup to his lips, keeping watch on his father while he drank.

“This is difficult for me to do,” John slurred and disposed of his empty bottle and helped himself to another before plunking back into the chair.

“Then don’t do it,” he shrugged

“You know I can’t do that. I told you, one more fight and that would be it.”

“So what are you going to do?” Dean asked, playing it off like he didn’t already know. “You going to kick me out in front of Sammy so I can never see him again?” Dean swallowed the next gulp of water hard and pushed the thought where the light couldn’t touch it.

“Oh stop being dramatic; you know I wouldn’t do that. I’ve made arrangements.” John’s eyes hit the roof of their sockets and he slumped back into his chair. Dean could tell he was racking his brain for a mollifying way to put it. “Arrangement for _treatment_ ,” he offered.

“The only one who needs _that_ around here is you,” Dean added curtly. John’s eyes dropped down to the now empty bottle in his hand. A carnivorous wave of guilt flooded visibly onto John’s face, and he stared in mortification at the bottle like it was the most revolting thing he has seen in all his years of hunting.

Then suddenly, as if a switch was flicked by some being inside his father’s head, John looked up to Dean with the fierceness he couldn’t remember seeing before, and Dean realized exactly why he was thankful a table blocking him. 

“You’ve got one day to pack,” John roared and Dean subconsciously backed up, hitting his back against the counter.

“Come on Dad,” he whimpered and held his hands out in front of him. “No more fights, I promise.”

“On Thursday, you will leave this house and not come back until the program is over.”

“But what about school?”

“Don’t pretend like you suddenly care about that,” he growled.

“Dad…”

 “Go to bed. I have some phone calls to make.” Dean faltered a moment and stared vacantly at his father, his lips parted. John decided he was taking too long. “Now!” he exploded, hitting the bottle against the table and shattering it into pieces that delved into his hand.

It only took a few seconds for John to realize what he did, and he quickly shot his other hand up to hold his wrist, steading the shaking. Dean wanted to help, he wanted to get him a washcloth and bandage but as soon as he moved an inch to the medicine cabinet, his father locked eyes on him and something in them told Dean to run.

Dean busted into their bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Grateful to be away from the chaos, he closed his eyes and collapsed against the wall. He wondering if he breathed at all while talking to his father, because he found himself gasping for air, but before he could get enough, he felt a pair of arms drawing him into a hug.

“Sammy,” he inhaled contently and rested his face in the crook of his neck. The thought of missing out on this made him feel sick, and he promised himself was going to try everything possible to get out of it.

 


	3. Chapter Three

Dean sat on his knees and kept his palms held to his face; feeling almost tempted enough to rip it off. “I can’t do this,” he admitted with an indignant grunt and fell onto his side.  

“It’s not that hard,” Sam’s voice piped in. 

His hand gapped apart and Dean focused on his brother thorough his fingers. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know, I’m not stupid, but lying on the floor like a baby isn’t getting anything done.” 

“You do it then,” Dean said placidly. 

 “If you think I’m going to go through your underwear and pick them for you you’re insane.” 

Dean sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t you have homework to do or something?” 

“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” Sam stated mater-of-factly and ignored the look of disapproval on Dean’s face. “I want to go to the airport with you.”

“And Dad’s okay with this?”

 “I haven’t told him, but he won’t care,” his voice trailed off as he brought the piece of paper he clutched in his hand up to his face.

“He’s going to care.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of being wrong?” Sam asked, pointing to the freshly-puffy battered area around Dean’s eye.  Once he stared him down long enough, Sam pulled a pencil out from behind his ear and made a dash onto the paper. “Okay, we have that down…” he droned to himself, “you need fourteen pairs of boxers.” 

Dean slouched over to the dresser and pulled open the drawer at the very bottom. “Only fourteen? Huh, I guess this program doesn’t last long.” 

Sam watched Dean work through his drawer, his lips moving soundlessly as he counted and picked. Sam felt awkward as the realization set in and he returned his gaze to the paper. He noticed something in small print and squinted to see it, and when he was done reading it over he almost didn’t want to tell his brother. “There’s something else,” Dean stopped and closed his drawer, counting through the pile once more before giving his brother his full attention. “It says that laundry will be done every two weeks.” 

“Son of a bitch!” he erupted, “I’m never going to get off this highway to hell, am I?” He asked rhetorically, and for a fleeting moment Sam thought he caught a rare glimpse of a tear making its way down his face, but Dean screamed into his hands before he could be sure. Sam stayed in position as he idly bit his nails, leaving Dean alone with his own mind because he knew that nothing he could say would help the moment, and Dean didn’t mind. Sometimes the company was enough for Dean, and he was just content to sit there with his little brother respecting his boundaries.

 That was one of the many reasons why he clung onto his brother more than any other breathing soul. Sam was familiar and safe. Without reason or words to explain this, Sam just knew the difference between Dean needing a hug, Dean needing space, and Dean needing silent company. After a long while, Dean gained whatever composure he could muster and pushed himself off the bed.

“Alright,” he exhaled, “let’s get this bullshit done.” 

Sam perked up and snatched the paper in his lap. “Okay, the next things on the list are seven pairs of shorts.” Just as Sam expected, his brother retorted with a scrunched up face. 

“Shorts?” Dean asked, spitting the word out of his mouth like snake venom. 

Sam held back an eye roll. “Oh come on, you can’t be scared of shorts your whole life.” 

Dean put his hands on his side and forced his face to go serious, but Sam could see the red slithering up his neck. “I’m not scared, they just aren’t…” he hesitated, “practical.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You’re going to a desert!” 

“Yeah, well…” Sam raised an eyebrow and tilted his head forward, emphasizing that he was waiting for a proper response. “I’m not arguing with you about this.”

Sam’s voice converted to sing-song. “You’re going to regret it.”

Dean flipped the idea over in his head a number of times, attempting to find a reason why Sam was wrong. But after all and as usual, Dean scoffed and opened a different drawer and excavated to the bottom, looking for something that they might as well consider dinosaur bones. He pulled out a wrinkly article of clothing that looked as if it was ironed that way and held it out in front of his hips, assessing if it would still get over them. 

Sam nodded his head and pursed his lips. “They look okay. Maybe a bit large, actually.” 

“I’ve had these forever,” Dean said, bringing them up to his nose and breathing them in. Sam watched as Dean’s face pinched up. “Maybe I’ll go to a Laundromat,” he thought aloud as he threw the pair onto his bed and returned to the drawer to fish out two more only to repeat the scene with them. 

He happily advanced towards his more frequented drawer and lifted out four pairs of his most comfortable and casual jeans. Sam couldn’t restrain the eye roll for a second time as Dean smiled brightly at his pants and hugged them to his chest. 

Sam didn’t bat an eye as his brother stepped to where his suitcase sat wide open. Dean deadpanned at him as he let the pants fall from his arms and flop into his case, and Sam responded with a small shake of the head. 

To Dean’s liking, Sam’s temple twitched in agitation as he read the next bullet point on the list off to him. “Fourteen pairs of socks.” 

“In a desert?” Dean barked. 

“Now you care about weather-appropriate clothes,” Sam mocked. 

“Just forget it. I’ll finish by myself,” he told him and waved Sam out of the room. 

~~~

 

Hours passed faster than Dean would have liked, and by the time he had everything ready Sam had retired for bed. Dean thought that he would relax in a bit of solitude and turned on the television and flicking the lights off before allowing himself to collapse into his chair. 

However, he learned he was not so lucky; John stepped out of the front door seconds after he sat down. He dropped his duffle to the floor just as Dean predicted and stood to the side, looking to his son then to the screen. “Go get some sleep,” John mumbled and took a seat on the couch adjacent from him. Dean thought that it sounded more of an offer than an order, and for that he was glad. A good amount of time floated by before anyone spoke again. 

“Big day tomorrow; it’s like you’re finally going on that Boy Scouts camping trip,” John found himself grinning at the memory, wanting to manifest it into words. “I remember when you wanted to join Boy Scouts because your friend, what was his name?” 

“Kevin,” he answered instantaneously.  

“Yeah,” John said airily. “You both came to me one night when I got home and you were practically vibrating with excitement,” John explained as he absentmindedly folded an old ratted throw blanket. Dean yawned and eased down further into the armchair, staring pointedly at the television which lost its sound for what he expected to be the last time. That didn’t really matter, however, because Dean had seen the exact same episode of I Love Lucy nearly a dozen times. He watched as Lucy tucked in Little Ricky, depositing a firm kiss to his forehead before gliding back to the main set of the show, where her husband laid fast asleep on the sofa. She placed her hands to her hips and sighed deeply. Dean could practically construct the laugh track in his mind’s ear.

 He remembered hearing somewhere that nearly all the laughing voices belonged to people who were long gone, being forgotten as people, but used continuously for modern shows and entertainment. And for a reason he wasn’t sure of, the thought made his stomach go sour. 

Dean pulled away from the screen to gaze at his father, whose face was lit from the only light source in the room: the TV, which had gone to commercial, resulting in color flashing in a way that showed every sleep-deprived indentation and shadowy corner on his father’s face, and when John spoke again, his tone was eerily euphoric.  “I’ve never seen you more captivated by anything before. I was going to let you go on a camping trip for the weekend and everything, just to give you an idea of what it would be like. You had your little schoolbag packed, and you went on and on about how many s’mores you were going to eat once you got to the grounds and built your own tent...” 

 

Suddenly, an ending to his tale emerged from a dark spot somewhere cavernous in his brain and ebbed away his smile like an incoming tide. He stalled from folding to look down at the bandage on his hand. He stared at it as if it just materialized from nowhere, and Dean couldn’t peel himself away from the scene. It was like watching a collision on the freeway. “But then I got a call from Will Harvelle…” he coughed uncomfortably, “something about a Shtriga in in Utah. We had to pack up and leave, but boy did you fight tooth and nail to stay with Kevin.”

The memory of him stung more than Dean would like to admit. “Where are you going with this?” 

“I was just…” John tried; quailing under his son’s fierce glare. “N-nothing, forget it. Try to lie down.”

“I’m not tired,” Dean lied, returning his attention to the television. 

John faltered briefly, moving only when he gained some of his composure back. He sluggishly abandoned the blanket on the back of the armchair Dean was occupying. “O-okay,” he stammered almost as if he was yet again drunk, although Dean knew for a fact all the alcohol was still in the fridge. “I’ll just… leave you to it, then.” 

Dean listened to the sound of John’s retreating footsteps into the bathroom followed by the rattle of pipes and the soft lull of the shower, and his eyes became heavy with sleep. He fought valiantly, endeavoring to keep his consciousness. 

While fastening his gaze onto the television, he didn’t give the episode’s context any consideration until the picture began to pixelate into soundless fuzz. It reminded him of a movie he watched with Sammy once one a Halloween night called The Poltergeist, and although he knew those types of things didn’t exist, a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. The old thing is just fritzing again, he assured himself; a good smack should get it going, but when he went to push himself forward, but discovered something alarming: he couldn’t move. 

His hands were gripping so forcefully to the armrests that his knuckles began to fade white. Not again, he wanted to shout. Not again, he strained to yell, but his voice traveled nowhere, and with dread, he learnt it was too late anyway. A peculiar lightness that he was already accustomed to consumed his body, and he could no longer tell if he was gripping the chair or not. But something different began to happen, something completely new and utterly outlandish. 

The television screen advanced towards him, swallowing him whole. 

~~~

When Dean came-to, he was lying on what he first presumed to be the floor. Having rolled off the armchair once before, it seemed the reasonable explanation, but when he struggled to get back onto his feet he realized he was nowhere near his apartment at all. In fact, he was in a place he recognized as the abyss he was thrown into frequently after passing out. Only this time, the scenery had changed according to what he was sucked into. All around him was endless black and white fuzz, and it made his head whirl. He swayed in place and cupped his palm over his eyes, allowing time for everything to set in. When he finally did peek through his gapped fingers, he found that the setting was much easier to look at. He allowed himself to turn slowly, weary of any unpredictable waves of queasiness. None ever came, and when he made it about halfway around, he caught an eyeful of precisely what he expected. 

About two-hundred feet away stood a silhouette clad in a visually stunning trench coat that was smack-dab in the middle of the vastness. It was of a male, but Dean could not tell physical features due to the placing of his form, which was always turned away from view. No matter which angle Dean started at, he would just turn along with him. Without an alternative plan, he began walking straight towards him, hoping he could sneak up on this stranger once and for all. 

When he stepped, he learned he was barefoot. The cool black ground showed him his reflection, and he was surprised that he wasn’t in his usual clothes. He was wearing something that looked like hospital clothes, both pants and shirt an ugly, sickly blue. 

He propelled the image away and progressed quicker to where the man stood. In a few minutes, the silhouette became a solid human being, and Dean felt like he could leap a thousand feet into the air from being so elated. In all of his years of the same reoccurring scene, over and over again, he was never this close to him. He cautiously raised a trembling hand to the point where his fingertips were nearly touching the ball of his back, and then to his dismay, he was suddenly enveloped in in black. The stranger shot away from him like a bullet from a barrel, and to his horror, something was raining down on him. He instinctively drew up his elbow in defense, using it as armor for his face. 

When the numbers of whatever was hitting him began to dwindle, he took up the courage and tentatively lifted his head and stole a look at what he was in for, but when he seen what was hitting him he felt quite silly. There were hundreds upon hundreds of feathers astray on the ground, completely burring his feet. 

A gravelly voice rung out into the abyss and Dean froze. He had only heard it one time before, and it had grown remarkably loud since then. “Those who build towers to heaven get stricken down in bloodshed,” the man paused as if he was carting around for a word fitting enough: “and confusion,” he finished.

Dean swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing along uncomfortably in his dry throat. “The last time I checked, you aren’t heaven.”

“No, I am not,” the stranger scornfully admitted, and Dean couldn’t help but to tremble in his wrath, “but I’m the closest thing you’ve ever been to it, and I would be lying to you if I told you I am not a tower.” They paused for a while until Dean took a progressive step forward, unleashing his foot from the feathers. 

Where the hell did these come from? Dean pondered. 

The voice boomed again, and Dean brought his hands to his ears. “I would not do that if I were you; your arm is already wounded.” Dean looked down to find that he was somehow right, and there was blood dripping down onto the discarded feathers by the cupful, and Dean wondered how he didn’t notice before, and why it didn’t hurt as bad as it should. But most of all, he was confused as to how it hadn’t already killed him. In a few seconds, the ground was an industrial-sized swimming pool of his own blood to the feathers, and surly he would have passed out long ago from losing so much in so little time. 

“No matter,” he grunted, still advancing forward, “I’ll live.” 

“Such bravery,” he said, “from a fool.”  

“Funny,” his arm began to feel a bit odd as it poured an endless amount onto his feet, like strings were being pulled from his arm, “being called a fool from a man who won’t show me his face for thirteen years.”

The stranger scoffed. “It’s time to wake up, Dean.”

He halted, wondering if he heard the man correctly. “What?”

“Wake up,” his voice was transforming into an oddly familiar one. “This isn’t funny, Dean. Dad said it’s time to go.” 

Oh. 

~~~

“Get out of my face,” Dean moaned, swatting Sam away from him. “Let me go back to sleep. Just five more minutes, I swear.” 

“You’re going to miss your flight, butthead,” Sam slapped him lightly. “You’ve got just enough time to shower,” he warned through a mouthful of tooth paste before returning to the kitchen sink to spit, leaving Dean to wake on his own accord. 

His jaw slowly opened with a lengthy yawn. 

“God Dean, cover your freaking mouth.” Dean rolled his eyes at him and went to scratch his chin, only his hand didn’t come. He warily looked down, not knowing what to expect. 

His hands were indeed there, but were arched around the wooden armrest, his palms compressed into the corners. He realized they ached him deeply once his eyes touched down to them, and a small gasp alerted Sam who had been flossing in the mirror a few feet behind Dean. 

“Sam, Sam, my hands, I can’t—” get them to let go, he panicked, but by the time Sam took action, it was like a switch rapidly flicked because his fingers simply released the grip. Dean stared at them astounded before gliding his sight up to his brother, who gaped back at him, his tooth floss still wrapped around and dangling off his finger. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam’s voice rattled; Dean would have been touched by his brother’s concern if he wasn’t for the situation. 

“My hands,” he tried, managing to flip his palms right side up. Sam’s own hand shot up and over his mouth. 

“What did you do to yourself?” 

Dean’s hands started to shake, “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to.”

Sam stepped forward and held his hands out, “Let me see.” Dean responded promptly, placing his hurt hands into his brother’s normal, clean-of-blood ones. “Jesus Christ, Dean, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” he grimaced as Sam ran his index finger across, “I just woke up and couldn’t get them to let go of the chair.”

“I think I read about this,” Sam said while carefully turning over Dean’s right hand and studying it, “you were probably in sleep paralysis. That sort of stuff happens; your body tenses and is almost impossible to relax.” 

Dean nodded, swallowing nothing down his dry throat. Yeah, he thought as he watched Sam, that had to be it. But when Sam stood up and walked away mumbling something about cleaning them out in the shower, Dean couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut that demanded it was something entirely else. 

He peeled himself off his favorite chair, thinking it will be a long time before he got sit in it again. He pushed the thought aside and focused on moving, his bare feet slapping against the uneven linoleum with every step until finally disappearing into the bathroom. 

           The dream came back to him in particles while he promptly scrubbed clean, forging into a whole picture by the time the water turned cold, which because of the rusted pipes was a solid five minutes. His hands hurt too much to stay in longer anyhow, and he reached for the knob. It was him in the dream, the man in the long coat. Of course it was him, it was always him. A shudder worked its way up Dean’s spine, but whether it was because of the memory of the man, or cool air nipping at his skin as he stood naked in front of the sink, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he found it impractical to pay the dream any more attention when a much larger anxiety tugged at every alive nerve in his body.

He leaned in closer to the medicine cabinet on the wall, forcing his stomach to deal with the cold sink pressing against it. He raised his palms, looking at them from the mirror. His stomach lurched when he seen the wounds from this new perspective, somehow making the sores look even worse. He dropped his hand to the mirror and pushed it open with only the tips of his fingers. Hell, even they hurt.

He resisted the urge to call out, and instead pulled out some of the gauze his father made sure he and Sam always had easy access to. He cut a long strip in half with his teeth, using a piece for each hand. The fabric rubbed until he secured it in place with safety pins, causing the pain pacify and become dull throbs. He pushed the mirror, clicking it back into place. In his reflection, the bandages looked much larger in proportion to his hands than he would have liked, but it was satisfactory. 

So what if people at this camp say things about his hands? It’s not like he’ll care one way or another. 

As he brushed his teeth to a shine, his mind wondered around islands of thoughts until he stumbled across one he’s never stepped foot on; a new cluster in the ocean of his brain. This is a camp for troubled teens. What sort of trouble does that mean, exactly? Would he be bunking with someone dangerous like an arsonist, or would it be someone like him; someone sent by a delusional parent for a nonexistent problem? He spit into the sink and twisted the faucet on, letting his unbandaged and raw fingertips bathe in the cold water. 

There were three soft knocks on the door. They were so quiet that Dean almost thought it was his mind playing a trick. “Yes?” he called to the other side, his voice unsure. 

There was a slight hesitation. “If you don’t mind,” it was John, “I need to get in there before we leave.” There was something different and brand new in his father’s voice; almost like it was detached from his body completely. Sure, it sounded like John’s voice, but the tone was all wrong. Dean pursed his lips together, hard in thought. 

“Sure,” he answered gently, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his reply didn’t make it past the door. Dean carelessly dressed, and when he opened the door and walked past his father, he dared himself steal a peek. However, John didn’t take notice, or at least he tried not to. His eyes were set straight ahead.

Sam dipped out from behind the arch in the kitchen, nodding his head at John, trying to say something without saying something. They watched their father make his way into the bathroom, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose until he shut the door behind him, concealing himself away. 

“You should have seen him last night,” Sam droned, “it was a total mess; downing beer after beer, sitting alone in the dark at the kitchen table.” 

“What else is new?” Dean asked harshly, walking a few feet to the kitchen and slapping himself onto a chair. Sam turned to face him as he reached under the table to where he abandoned his shoes, snatching them up. Sam held his hand out and waved it around the kitchen. Dean’s gaze followed it along. The evidence of John’s binge was spread all over the room. The bottles sat in every corner of every countertop, glass projecting the sun’s early rays directly into Dean’s eyes. 

“Dean, this is new.” He stopped looking around and focused on the tall figure standing in front of him. 

“Looks the same to me,” he spat, tying up his laces, tugging them into a knot harder than he knew he probably should. 

“The only thing that’s the same is the number of beers,” Sam said matter-of-factly, “everything else is different.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Dean asked, his face tensing. 

Sam backed up a little and leaned his side against the wall. He glanced to the door behind him, suspicion possessing his features, and turned back to his brother. He lowered his tone to a whisper, and cupped a hand around his lips. Dean leaned in closer. “There was something all wrong about the aftermath.”

Dean looked around, and couldn’t find one thing out of place except for the empty bottles. “Everything seems pretty put together to me,” Dean stated.  

Sam rolled his eyes. “Exactly!” 

Dean looked around again, only this time he considered everything he normally wouldn’t. The sink, which usually contained piles of dirty dishes Dean would eventually have to wash, was empty. The room itself looked like it had when they first moved in. He looked down to his shoes, and wondered how anyone could get the floor in sparkling condition. He was amazed he hadn’t noticed it before.  “So he got shitfaced,” Dean’s eyebrows raised, “and cleaned the apartment?” Sam nodded and parted his lips as if he had something important to add; only he didn’t get the chance. The sound of the door opening rang throughout the kitchen, freezing both brothers in their spots. 

John passed by the archway, but backed up a step to stare at both his sons. “Well, what are you waiting for?” 

They exchanged glances and abandoned the kitchen for their bedroom, Sam grabbing most of the luggage before he could say anything about it, but as Dean took the left-over suitcase in his sore hands, he was thankful.

Sam trudged out of the room first, not giving it a second thought. Dean, however, stood there for a while, wondering how Sam could leave so quickly without any kind of hesitation. Dean realized that Sam was probably happy that he would have a room to himself for the first time he could remember, and that gave Dean a bad taste in his mouth. He found himself asking an abundance of questions that came with fabricated answers, and all made his stomach hurt more with each passing second that he stood there. Sam never whined about or even mentioned wanting his own room, at least to Dean. Well, now he would have it, even with the bad circumstances attached. 

He stepped over to a picture frame sturdily set on his short dresser and stroked his index finger down the base, taking in all he could. His mother’s face stared back at him from behind the glass, blonde, smiling, and holding a baby Sam in her arms. She looked worn-down, but beautiful nonetheless. Dean would give up everything and anything to go the moment the picture was taken, and warn her. He regarded the similar picture on Sam’s dresser, and pinched the bridge of his nose; his head was staring to ache, and John’s voice traveled up to him from outside the window. The hum of the impala flooded the streets below, and Dean plucked the picture from its prison and secured it in his bag.  He forced himself out fast, closing the door so when he looked back he wouldn’t be tempted to crawl back under the covers where he could protect himself in a familiar place forever. 

He’s only called the room home for a few months, and he’s left so many other places he’s stayed at even longer without a speck of reluctance. The idea of Sammy being happy Dean would be gone made the dread pile up in his gut as fast as the trash in a dump. If Sam didn’t realize it yet, he will when he finds the space to himself that was absent since he was a few months old. He made his way to the door that would lead him down the stairs and out of his baby brother’s life for a long time, but was startled when a mass was already standing in the doorway. 

It was taller than him, and when it spoke it crashed a wave of contentment over him. “Come on, Dad’s waiting,” he said, tucking his hands in his front pockets. Dean stood there staring, and thought hard about how Sam had grown inches before he even noticed, how Sam came up those stairs to him, and how Sam was throwing his arm around his shoulders and reassuring him in a calm voice. They went down together, stepping in sync and overcoming every last step together. That’s what Winchesters do, after all. 

~~~

Dean swallowed and put his focus on the next horrifying task ahead. The thought made the hairs on his neck erect, the goose bumps on his arms alive, and the gasses in his stomach churn in an unusual way. The high fence and shadowing building loomed in the distance; the thunderous sounds threatened the cleanliness of the impala where Dean sat, trying to settle his stomach so the contents wouldn’t meet the dashboard. 

“You’re going pale,” John said, turning into the parking garage. Dean almost saw the back of his eyelids as a plane flew overhead, but the back of his father’s good hand tenderly slapped his cheek a few times. “Stay perky, will ya? I don’t want to be dragging your unconscious body on the turnpike.” He tried to be witty, but it only made Dean curl up further on the inside.

“Dad, you know how he feels about planes,” Sam attempted to scold, but halfway through retreated into a meek statement. 

They pulled into a spot close to the elevator, and John cut the engine. “Yeah I know, but he doesn’t have a choice.” 

Sam sighed and muttered something under his breath before getting out. Dean followed his lead promptly, sauntering towards the trunk where Sam already grabbed two handfuls of his luggage. John grabbed one, and left Dean the same bag he had before. The trunk was closed in the blink of an eye, the red paint of the Devil’s Trap shining in the florescent light of the grungy concrete garage. Dean’s hand grazed the impala’s glossy surface, and a crazy idea slithered its way into Dean’s mind. He imagined snatching the keys from the clip on John’s jeans, infiltrating the car and driving as fast as possible away from the airport forever. The idea, however, was scrapped as Dean fell into step behind Sam to the elevator. He could try, but he was confident that his father’s reactions would have been quicker. 

The elevator doors dinged open, and the sun outside shone in. It was completely glass with the exception of the wooden floor; it contrasted the garage so much that Dean wondered for a second if it was a mirage. 

They filed in next to an older woman who was fussing with her purse. She smiled sweetly at them, and Sam was the only one to return the gesture. “Don’t you just love the fall?” she asked, gesturing outside the elevator. Sam nodded politely, and turned slightly towards Dean. The woman glanced down and made a small throaty noise successful at gaining all of their attention. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your hands?” she asked, motioning to John and Dean. Sam waited uneasily as John’s eyes traveled to his son’s bandaged, bloody hands. Not noticing them before, there was no hiding them now. Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other and nibbled at his lip, something he did when situations were far beyond his control. John gapped at his hands, and Dean could nearly see the fuse being lit in his brain. 

Sam cleared his throat and took the social interaction upon himself again. “It was a fishing accident,” he informed her. She bobbed her head with pursed lips, and Dean realized that she probably seen right through it. He elbowed Sam in the side, causing him to jump a few inches to the right. She eyed them accusingly yet remained quiet for the rest of the ride, but before the awkward silence could really set the elevator doors slid open, revealing the hectic lobby. John waved his arm at the woman, signaling her to go before them. 

They waited until she was several feet ahead before they started walking, allowing time for a dozen other people to fill the gap between them. “A fishing accident?” Dean spat. “I come up with better excuses when I’m asleep.” 

“Forget about that,” John cut in, “what the hell did you do to yourself?”

“I could be asking you the same, Dad.” Dean spoke, glancing down to his father’s own bandaged hand. 

John’s lips parted and his brows tightened, but the first word out of his mouth was lost in a rumble sounding though out the airport. Dean halted, blocking an entire line of disgruntled passengers behind them. He brought his hand up to his face, squeezing his forehead with his thumb and index finger. 

When it had registered to them that Dean wasn’t moving along, Sam and John both stopped with him, blocking even more people. Some groaned, while others remained respectful and simply walked around them. 

“You okay?” Sam asked him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“I feel like I’m going to puke,” Dean said, keeping his eyes shut. “All these damn people buzzing around is making me nauseous.”

 “Come on, we’ll get you a doggy bag.” John spoke impatiently, grabbing Dean’s shirt by the sleeve and pulling him forward, but his body stiffened in response. Dean opened his eyes and found his father’s face, narrowing when his made a connection with John’s. His face, which was brightening red with each second, tightened. Dean tugged his arm in the opposite direction, making the fabric slip from between his fingers. 

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, his voice coated in venom.  By the way John’s face contorted, he could tell he stung his target accurately. Sam’s eyebrows shot up, nearly greeting his hairline as Dean took a step forward. His fear was replaced with a goal, and he promised himself at that moment that no one will ever drag him anywhere. “Let’s go,” he turned towards Sam who just nodded cautiously in response. 

He trailed Dean’s footsteps all the way to the bag check-in, which went more easily than expected. However, as Dean watched his bags sail down the belt he felt an immense amount of helplessness. It became real o him then. His stuff was gone, floating away into the plane he desperately feared. They had no choice but to make the walk to the security-check gate where they would have to fracture into two separate ways. John followed in suit a few feet behind, slumping as if the luggage was still a burden. 

The sign came into view high above them, but before going through the gate Dean would have to say goodbye. He knew all along that this would be the most difficult step of the transition. Suddenly, his throat was barren. He turned to his brother, afraid that nothing efficient enough would slip past his lips. His words failed him, but to his surprise Sam, who sometimes talked to the point of exhaustion, seemed to be having similar problems. They stalled, both gapping like fish in a crowd of sightseers and businessmen. Eventually, they realized their attempts of discovering what to say would stay running dry, and instead Sam made a move forward. Before Dean could fight it, a pair of arms yanked him into a hug, and he instinctively became starch. The longer it lasted, and it seemed to last an hour, his muscles learned to unravel, and in time Dean found out how to lift up his arms slowly and wrap them around his brother’s awkward and still-growing body. When they pulled away, Sam’s face twitched for a moment and he sniffled back a cry. Dean taught him that— how not to crack even when everything is telling you to. If it was one thing Dean has learned for sure, it’s that crying is too revealing. It shows others where your weaknesses lie, so he practiced what he preached and smiled even though it was forcefully done.

He pulled his bandaged hand into a fist and brought up under Sam’s chin, lightly hitting in causing Sam to grin. Dean wasn’t one for affections, at least not since he was a whole lot younger. When they broke the eye contact, he turned around to John who had just been watching with silent ease. The muscles in his face relaxed, leaving an actual frown embedded into his lips. Dean couldn’t help but to wonder what he had to frown about. He is going to be able to go back home and sleep until whatever time he liked. He can see Sam every day, and for that he had no idea how lucky he is. The air between them was heavy and filled with a negative charge. Dean kept his eye narrowed on his father’s face long enough to make John uncomfortable enough to squirm. 

 

“Sam, can I have a moment with your brother?” John turned away from Dean’s deepening scowl. “Alone, please?” Sam thought for a moment before slowly nodding and hunching away. Dean watched him go until only the top of his head was detectable, towering over the sea of bodies. Dean thought about leaving John in his dust and trudging away and through the terminal, but curiosity drew him in like a mouse to a trap. 

 

He couldn’t breathe, and thought it was best to make the air lighter. “Make that kid get a haircut,” Dean told him, but he couldn’t help himself. “But, you know, not in the way you make me do things.” 

 

John tucked his hand into his jean pocket. 

 

“Look, Dean,” he sighed, “I’m not here to be your enemy.” 

 

“Tell yourself what you need to get through the day, I guess.”

 

“Will you cut that shit out?” his voice hitched, gaining attention from a few on-lookers. John dipped in closer to Dean, softening his voice several octaves. “What I’m trying to say” his chest was heaving now, “is that you need to work on yourself. For a change.”

 

“You’ve got a problem with the way I run the house? That’s why you’re doing this.”

 

“Just listen to me for a change,” Dean blinked back any sort of response and figured why the hell not. He blew some air past his lips to release the tension building in the pit of his gut, and paid him with his full attention. “I know I messed up a lot while you were growing up. The sacrifices you made for your brother is something he will remember until the grave.” He paused, swallowing before he continued. It sounded practiced; Dean took note of, almost like John went over it a hundred times in the shower that morning. “I am the weak one, and for what I lack you make up in. Why do you think your mother and I worked so well? Do you think I was the one holding everything together? This ain’t easy for me, but it needs to get done. You can’t keep this up. I’m not going to let you go down the same road I did. I guess what I’m trying to say is I know I did a shit-poor job with the two of you, but I want this to end now. I want to somehow make it up to this family, and this is the only option I see working.” He was flushing red and talking so quick a hummingbird would have trouble keeping up the beat.

 

But when he paused for a response, all Dean could do was think was holy shit that sounds like an apology.

 

 Saying something back would just ruin it, so he kept his tongue in place until John clapped a strong, sturdy hand on his shoulder. Dean was never one for words, so when the woman behind him shouted that the plane would be departing soon, he whispered an awkward “uh, thanks” and left through the terminal, his heart weighing down too heavy to look back. 

 


End file.
